


I'm just a ghost running scared

by Builder



Series: Canon ships and all that jazz [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of fluffy, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Sickfic, Stark Tower, Vomiting, because always, canon? kind of?, that's the part that's ew, there seriously need to be more tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 17:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13769205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Hulking out leaves Bruce drained and feeling sick.  He doesn't mean to let Nat in on it.  But it's for the best that he does anyway.





	I'm just a ghost running scared

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from tumblr. Find me @builder051.
> 
> Trying on a new ship. Hopefully this works out ...

Since moving into the tower, Bruce has been hesitant to set foot in the gym.  He went in once to walk a few miles on the treadmill, but the sight and sounds of Captain America battling a punching bag and Tony boxing with Happy at opposite ends of the large room had made him anxious.  Since then, he’s taken his walks in Central Park instead.

It’s alright, since he doesn’t need to train in order to have strength in battle.  And he gets plenty of time to bond with the team over pancake breakfasts and movie nights.  Bruce spends most of his free time alone, either working in his lab or reading or meditating in his room.  Things are quiet and predictable.  And that’s how he likes them.

So when Nat knocks on his door one morning and asks if he’d like to play at capoeira with her, he has no idea why he says yes.

They warm up awkwardly, stretching and shifting foot to foot on the mat, a few yards of empty space between them.  Bruce assumes Nat will tell him when she wants to really get started, but every time he sneaks a glance at her, she drops her gaze to the floor.

_Is she shy?_  Bruce wonders.   _I’m shy.  Black Widow can’t be shy._

 

“Alright, so, you know how to do this?” Nat finally asks.  She stands perfectly balanced on one foot as she holds the other behind her and stretches her quad.

Bruce nods.  “The basics, yeah,” He says.  “But mostly from, you know, reading about it.”

“Mm.”  Nat gives a sly smile.  “Well, it’s a little different in practice.”  She drops her foot and assumes a low stance.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll go easy on you.”

“What?  You don’t…  I can…”  Bruce can barely wrap his tongue around the words.  He doesn’t have a competitive spirit.  He should be grateful she’s not intent on taking him down.  But something makes him speak up.

“I’ll go easy on you…at first,” Nat amends.  She taps her palm against the outside of her thigh, starting a slow beat.  “I don’t have any music, but is this ok?”

She’s asking about the tempo.  To which the answer is yes, it’s fine.  The way the fabric of her leggings ripples slightly after each strike is fine too.

“Mm-hm.”  Bruce nods and forces himself to look into Nat’s face.

“Good.”  She keeps up the percussion and starts moving her feet in a measured pattern, swooping her torso and eventually raising her arms to chest height.  Bruce mirrors her.

They move through the  _ginga_  for a few moments, until the rhythm of the steps feels natural.  “Ok, ready?” Nat asks.

“Yeah.”

The word is barely out of Bruce’s mouth when Nat feints at him, causing him to scoot back several feet.  His heart hammers as if he’s witnessed a jump-scare.  He takes a breath and slides back to his original position, feeling stupid.

“You’ll be ok, even if you get hit,” Nat says, jabbing toward him again, this time with her elbow.

“Yeah, I know.”  He’s not worried about hits, though the instinctual fear of being struck is part of what’s raising his blood pressure.  He needs to calm down.  “I’m more worried about you.”

Nat rolls her eyes.  “I’ll be ok if you hit me.”  She aims a kick at Bruce’s knee.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, quickly sidestepping.  “That’s not what I meant.  If I turn into, you know, the other guy…”

“You know this room is engineered to withstand any damage ‘the other guy’ can do, right?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want to transform and damage stuff.”  Bruce initiates a swipe toward Nat’s knee, and she easily dodges.

“If you want to train as you, or if you want to train as him, it’s fine,” Nat says, parrying Bruce’s attack with a punch to his ribs, which lands. The impact isn’t too hard, but it still smarts.

Nat pauses, her fist still against Bruce’s side.  She cocks her head.  “Whatever you choose, you need to train a little harder.”

Bruce’s irritation rises toward anger.  He aims a kick at Nat’s calf, barely brushing her as she leaps backward _._

_Breathe.  Cam down_ , he tells himself.   _Don’t get mad._ A halo of green shimmers around his peripheral vision.

“You can turn,” Nat says.  “I’m not gonna get mad.”

_Breathe.  Breathe._

“I don’t fucking want to turn!” Bruce explodes.

And that does it.  He swings his fist toward Nat, and he feels himself expand, bursting out of the confines of his t-shirt as pure rage fills his mind.

***

“Banner.  Hey.”

Someone taps his cheek.

“Bruce?”  The voice sounds familiar, but it’s filtered as if it’s coming from the end of a tunnel.

His head aches.  Bruce peels his eyes open and struggles to blink away the blur that still holds tinges of green.

_Shit_.  Where is he?  What was he doing?

A face framed with red hair swims into view above him.  “Hey.  You ok?” Nat asks.

“Ugh,” Bruce scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes.  Sweat drips down his temples toward his ears.  He wishes he could answer with a confident  _yes_  and disappear into his room, but he doesn’t trust himself to sit up yet.  He hopes his gym shorts survived the transformation.

“Do you need me to get someone?  Are you hurt, d’you think?”  Nat clasps his shoulder.

“I’m ok,” Bruce croaks.  His voice breaks with the effort.  Sick clamminess creeps over his body as nausea begins to well up in his chest.

Nat still looks concerned.

“Did I do anything?  Did I hurt you?” Bruce asks.

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Nat says hurriedly.  “But just, are you ok?  You don’t look good.”

“Well thanks.”

“I’m serious.  Did it go wrong or something?  You’re not supposed to be in so much pain…”  Nat squeezes his arm tighter, then seems to check herself.  “Sorry,” she mutters, loosening her grip.

“This is normal,” Bruce groans.  He shoves himself up on one elbow and pauses for equilibrium to catch up.

It doesn’t.  He’s silently grateful for Nat’s touch.  It assures him the world isn’t actually tipping beneath him.

“It can’t be,” Nat says.  “You look really sick.  I’ve never seen you like this before…”

“That’s because—”  Bruce pauses to swallow thickly.  “I usually try to be alone while I, uh, recover…”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but Bruce has to turn toward his shoulder as he quells a queasy belch.

“You really don’t look good,” Nat says, biting her lip.

“I really don’t feel good,” Bruce admits.  “But it’s normal, I promise.  Being the other guy takes a lot of energy.  It leaves me kinda…wiped out.”

“This is just, like, low blood sugar?”  She stares at him in disbelief.

Bruce nods and shrugs.  “You try having every cell in your body reconfigure itself twice over…”  He finally gets himself to a seated position, but vertigo still threatens to down him.  He bows forward with his head between his knees.  “Sorry,” he mutters.

“No, it’s no problem,” she says.  “What helps it?”

“Time, I guess?  Gatorade?” Bruce says to the floor.

“Something to eat, maybe?” Nat suggests.

“Eh, I don’t know.”  He’s too nauseated to think about eating.  Even fluids seem questionable at this point.

“Maybe some crackers?  Or ginger ale?  Something to settle your stomach.”

“I’m ok,” Bruce insists.  “You don’t have to, like, wait on me or anything.”

“I’m not gonna leave you to suffer either,” Nat says, “Despite my reputation.”

Bruce lets out his breath.

“I’ll be right back, ok?”  Nat pats his shoulder and gets to her feet.

***

The shakiness fades while Nat’s gone, but the urge to throw up doesn’t.  Eventually the nausea rises into a flow of saliva over Bruce’s back teeth, and he scrambles to his feet to dash into the bathroom.  The sink is closer, and the prospect of changing altitude to kneel in front of the toilet makes him feel like passing out.

Bruce gags harshly over the basin.  He can’t remember how long ago he had breakfast or even what he ate.  He grips the edge of the counter with white knuckles as a surge of sour bile splashes up.

“Banner?” Nat calls from the gym.

“Shit,” Bruce mutters.  She probably thinks he’s up and vanished.  He retches again, and the sound betrays his location.

“Oh.”  There’s a crinkling sound as Nat sets her provisions on the floor, then she appears at his elbow.

Bruce cringes.  “Sorry,” he breathes.  She shouldn’t be here, seeing him like this.  It’s gross.  It’s crossing a line.  “You can…go.”

“No,” Nat says.  She pats him on the back.  “I don’t want to leave you alone like this.”

“Like I said,” Bruce pants, spitting out strings of mucous and bile, “It’s normal.  I mean, I don’t always get sick, but, you know…  I can…take care of myself.”

“You can,” Nat acquiesces.  “But I’m still not gonna leave.”

“Jesus Christ.”  Bruce shakes his head.  He ignores the reverberating pain behind his forehead and turns on the faucet.  He splashes his face, and icy droplets run down his neck and bare chest.

Nat hands him a towel.  “There you go,” she whispers with a sympathetic smile.

“Ah.  Yeah.”  Bruce isn’t sure why he doesn’t just say  _thanks_.

“Do you want something to drink?” Nat asks.  “I brought…”  She gestures to what looks like half the pantry in a pile beside the door.  There’s water, ginger ale, and Gatorade in three different flavors, plus a few packages of crackers.

“Not really,” Bruce says into the towel.  “I mean…not yet.  That’s…a lot.”

“I thought maybe you’d need to refuel.”

“Yeah, in, like a few hours maybe?”  A tremor of exhaustion plays through Bruce’s arms and legs, but the queasiness hasn’t faded yet.  “I’m still…ugh.”  He shakes his head.

“Is there something else I can do?”  Nat reaches out awkwardly.

“Naw.  I should probably lie down.  Then think about, like, slowly sipping some water.  Balancing electrolytes.”

“I can take this stuff up to your room,” Nat offers.  She bends to scoop up the bottles and boxes.

“I didn’t have you pegged for one to be so helpful,” Bruce says, abandoning the towel on the counter.

“Like I said.  I don’t always live up to my reputation.”

“Yeah…”  Bruce sighs vaguely.

“I’ll keep reminding you,” Nat says, swatting his arm with a bag of Goldfish crackers.

“Sure.”

***

Bruce sleeps for five hours.  When he wakes, groggy and still suffering a headache, he swallows 20 ounces of Gatorade in one gulp.  He reaches for his phone, hoping he hasn’t missed anything important.

He swipes away the usual news updates, then pauses when he comes to a text message.

_Nat: Let me know when you’re ready to refuel.  There’s a place around the corner that makes the best meatball sandwiches.  I’m buying._

Bruce lets out his breath in nervous apprehension.  Then he stumbles out of bed to find a shirt


End file.
